


Old Soldiers Never Die

by NewLifeCrisis



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-03 00:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12737271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewLifeCrisis/pseuds/NewLifeCrisis
Summary: Percival Graves was imprisoned at a POW camp for 193 days. Going home is harder than he thought it would be.





	Old Soldiers Never Die

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all military men and women, past and present, for your service!  
> Apologies for any inaccuracies, and feel free to point them out.

It was a Tuesday when he was rescued. At least, that's what the medic told him when he'd asked what day it was. He didn't have the strength to rephrase and ask for the date, or to tell the kid that days of the week meant nothing to him anymore. He just nodded and closed his eyes, waiting for this dream to end like every other time. 

However, this time, when Percival awoke again, it was to the feeling of smooth sheets and a soft mattress surrounding him. The room was a sterile white to match the antiseptic smell in the air. He blinked slowly, feeling the heavy pull of painkillers and sedatives in his blood. Even through the haze of opioids, the pain came rolling over him in waves. He groaned aloud, and found his throat hurt a little less than usual. 

A kind-looking nurse came in to check on him, her ponytail bobbing merrily as she entered his room. Percival stared at her hair a little too long as he realized he hadn't seen a ponytail in months. 

_It's always the little things you never thought you'd miss_ , a faint, British-accented voice said in his head. 

"Afternoon, Mr. Graves!" the nurse greeted him cheerily. "Your vocal cords are still healing, so just answer me with a nod for yes or a head shake for no. So, do you know where you are?"

He shook his head.

"You were rescued three days ago and taken to a hospital out there before being transferred back to the States. We've kept you under sedation until now to make your transition easier," she explained. "Are you in any pain right now?"

A nod. He'd stopped pretending to be strong long ago.

"That's to be expected. Now that you're awake, we can increase your painkiller dosage." She walked over to the IV he hadn't even noticed to up the drip. "Oh, and we've contacted your parents too. They should be arriving tomorrow morning."

He nodded, then slipped into sleep as the medicine worked its way through his veins.

 

Arthur and Evelyn Graves had always been proud of their son. They were proud of him when he graduated from West Point at the top of his class. They were proud of him every time he received a promotion, and when he left for his first tour of duty. They were proud of him when he came home with a Purple Heart for throwing himself in front of a bullet meant for someone else, and when he left for a second tour after that. They were proud of him when he took on a third tour, this time as a Lieutenant Colonel. So yes, they had always been proud of the determined and dedicated man their son had become. Even now, seeing their boy broken in a hospital bed, held together by stitches, metal, and bandages, they were as proud of him as ever, because he had  _survived_. He had come back home to them.  

"Oh, Percy," Mrs. Graves whispered, reaching down to hold her son's splinted hand. Tears made their way from her eyes, and she held her free hand over her mouth to muffle the sobs.

Arthur Graves, a veteran himself, couldn't help but feel relieved to have his only son back, even in his current condition. Percival's doctors had briefed them on the damage before they were allowed to see him. Judging from the scars on his back, the missing nails on his broken fingers, and the water in his lungs, their son had endured torture at the hands of his captors. The angry welts around his wrists spoke of months of bound hands, while the bruising and broken bones painted images of countless cruel beatings. Their boy, once strong, healthy, and tanned from work, was now scarcely more than a skeleton wrapped in paper-pale skin.    

Arthur wrapped an arm around his wife's shaking shoulders and assured her, "It's alright, Evelyn. The doctor said he'll be just fine."

They both knew that wasn't the point. 

They sat quietly at Percival's bedside for the rest of the morning, and had just gone down to the cafeteria for lunch when they were called back to their son's room. He had woken up in a panic and had knocked a nurse down in his disorientation. Evelyn pushed past the doctors and nurses trying to restrain him, and cupped his gaunt face with both hands.

"Percy, honey, it's okay," she said calmly. "You're safe now. Mom and Dad are here with you now, sweetie."

Percival's eyes were wide and wild with fear, but the surprise at his mother's touch caused him to pause.

"M-Mom?" he rasped. God, his voice sounded wrecked. When had that happened? 

"Yeah, baby, it's me," she said encouragingly. "Let's get you back in bed now, huh? You look ready to shake apart, Percy."

And it was true, with the adrenaline fading, he was close to passing out from the effort of standing. His father helped him get settled in his hospital bed as his mother pulled the sheets back over him in a tainted parody of how they used to tuck him in at night as a child.

"Dad? Wh-" he struggled to squeeze the words out of the tightness in his throat. 

"Try not to speak for now, your vocal cords need rest to heal," Percival's lead doctor stepped forward to explain. "They've been damaged from um, overuse, but it should heal up on its own."

Overuse? He hadn't really had anyone to speak to, except, oh. He'd hurt his throat by screaming so much. 

"It's alright, son," his father's voice brought him back to the present. "Your mother and I are right here with you. We'll still be here when you wake up, okay?"

Percival managed half a nod before the drugs pulled him back into sleep.

 

True to their word, Arthur and Evelyn stayed with their son for the entirety of his hospital stay, taking turns going to their hotel to shower and sleep. Evelyn insisted on being with Percival for every meal though, to make sure he actually ate. 

"Don't think I've forgotten that you let Percy feed his brussel sprouts to the dog way back when," Mrs. Graves admonished them both. "I just want my boy to be healthy again," she said tearfully.

Percival obediently ate all his vegetables after that.

Someone from the military's legal branch came to get his statement when his voice was recovered enough. Percival requested his parents stay with him for the questioning, even as their hearts broke upon hearing how their son had sacrificed himself to his captors so that the rest of his battalion could go free. How the POW camp's leader, a man named Grindelwald, had taken sadistic pleasure in torturing their boy for information on US troops' movements. Grindelwald hadn't even cared if he got the information, only that he made Percival scream. He had been inventive too, not stopping at whipping, beating, and waterboarding. He isolated Percival from the other prisoners because he kept trying to orchestrate break outs and locked him in a 6' by 8' cell to suffer alone. He denied him food and water until he was on the verge of dying of thirst and begging for food scraps. Then there had been electric shocks that caused a lingering tremor in his hands, and crude scarification of Grindelwald's name on his chest that left him anemic from blood loss. The entire Graves family was in tears by the end of the statement, and the military investigator left them to comfort each other in private. Percival cried himself to sleep in his mother's arms for the first time in over 20 years.     

Percival was recovering physically well enough, but after they weaned him off the heavy sedatives, it became clear that his mental health was far from fine. His parents dreaded the nights, when they were helpless against the terrors haunting their son's mind even in sleep. They could only hold his hand and wipe the sweat and tears from his face as he cried and begged for it to stop. One night, Arthur was doing his best to coax Percival out of another nightmare, when his son screamed as if in tangible pain then dissolved into tears, asking, "Please, please just let me die. I can't-I can't do this anymore."

Arthur despaired at the thought that his son would rather die than face the tortures of reality and hastily shook him awake to stop the heart-breaking litany.

The next morning, before Evelyn returned, Arthur pulled Percival into a gentle hug (he flinched at the contact anyway) and asked, "You'll tell me or your mother or someone if this all gets to be too much, right? It's perfectly fine to feel overwhelmed by everything's that's happened, but you know we're here for you to lean on, yes?" 

His son relaxed a bit in his arms and he heard a quiet "Yes, Dad."

"What's going on here?" Mrs. Graves inquired upon entering the room with an armful of fresh flowers.

Arthur relinquished his son from the hug, but kept a steadying arm around his shoulders. "Oh, nothing, dear, just talking about how we're gonna bust him out of here."

She rolled her eyes as she changed out the flowers. "Well, no need to conspire, boys, the doctor said Percy should be able to be discharged in a week or so!"

"That's great, son. It'll be nice to have you home with us again."

"Home with you?" Percival asked hesitantly.

"Of course, honey!" his mother exclaimed. "We wouldn't let you go back to that dreary apartment in the city all alone, Percy." She reached out to finger-comb his overgrown hair, undeterred by the way he reflexively flinched at her touch. 

"Oh, okay," he responded blankly.

Both parents shared a concerned look over his head at his apathetic attitude.

 

Percival was discharged the next week, though time still felt so fluid and unimportant, he didn't bother to keep track. His mother wheeled him out of the hospital to wait for Arthur to pull the car around, and he realized he had been in Boston the whole time and hadn't thought to ask where he was. It felt like late summer now. It had been December when he was taken prisoner.   

His parents had set up a makeshift bed for him in the back seat of their sedan so he could get comfortable for the drive back to his childhood home in upstate New York. He watched the hazy, summer sky pass by through the sunroof, trying not to let claustrophobia steal his breath. He lost his careful control when they entered the tunnel of the turnpike and the car was plunged into darkness. It didn't matter that he could hear cars honking at each other in the mid-day traffic, or that his mother had her hand on his knee, saying soothing things, because suddenly, he was back  _there_. Alone, cold, and dying at the hands of a monster. 

_I will break you, Colonel_ , a sickeningly familiar voice whispered at the back of his mind.

His breath was coming uncontrollably fast, but it felt like he could never get enough. He thought, hoped, that he would just pass out and forget the world for awhile, but then blindingly white sunlight filled his vision and chased away the shadows of his memories. As they left the tunnel, he remembered how to breathe again, and his other senses returned to function now that the all-encompassing panic was receding. He felt fresh air from the open windows drying the tears and cold sweat on his face, and could hear his mother speaking urgently, "Can you hear me, Percy? Are you with us, baby?"

He swallowed hard before replying, "Y-Yeah, Mom, I'm okay now."

"You gave us a bit of scare, son," his father said lightly, even though Percival could see his worried expression in the rear-view mirror. 

"I-I'm sorry, I-" he began.

"No, no, Percy, don't apologize for that. You should never have to apologize for feeling like that," his mother interjected adamantly. "If anything, we should be sorry for not thinking this through."

"Don't worry, Perce, we won't be going through anymore tunnels this trip," his father assured him. "Why don't you try to sleep for now? We'll be home before you know it."

Exhausted as he was from the panic attack, and yes, he'd been a soldier long enough to admit to himself that that's what it was, he fell asleep quickly and easily. 

He woke with a start to the sound of the car door opening.

"Hey, honey, we're home," his mother announced with a smile as she got out of the passenger's seat to open the back door for him. Between her and his father, they helped him to stand and pivot into the waiting wheelchair. The doctor had suggested they continue using the wheelchair for now, as his broken wrists and atrophied muscles wouldn't support him on crutches. Getting the chair up the front porch steps jarred his fractured tibia, and he heard his mother whisper to his father about building a ramp up to the house. 

He hadn't been home in two years, and was relieved to find that everything looked just the way he remembered it. His mother was a meticulous cleaner, so he was surprised that there were dirty dishes in the sink and his father's briefcase left haphazardly by the door. It looked like they hadn't had time to clean up before they left, and he guiltily realized that they had probably dropped everything to come see him.

"So we were thinking you could stay in the downstairs guest room for now, okay, Percy? That way you won't have to worry about managing the stairs," Mrs. Graves said, opening the guest room door so his father could wheel him in. She pulled some of his father's old clothes out of the dresser and set them on the bed. "You have a doctor's appointment in the city on Wednesday, so we'll go by your apartment after that to pick up some of your stuff. Until then, you can use your father's clothes, okay?"

_Wednesday? Didn't she know that he hadn't had a schedule to keep in over six months? Couldn't she understand that he hadn't so much as seen a calendar in that long?_  Percival immediately mentally berated himself.  _No, it's not her fault,_  he thought to himself, clenching his splinted fingers. 

"Percy? Something wrong?"

He shook his head and forced a smile. "No, Mom, sounds great."

She bit her lip as if holding back her words before nodding and helping him get changed.

The next few days passed uneventfully, with his mother tending to all his needs. His father had gone back to work at his law firm before their upcoming trip into the city. Percival was stable enough, apart from the usual pain from his injuries and the persistent nightmares. There was one incident when Mrs. Graves insisted on having a picnic on their sundeck to "get some color back in his cheeks." Although the doctors had drained his lungs of the stagnant water he had nearly been drowned with during his captivity, the humidity of a New England summer still made Percival cough uncontrollably. He couldn't stop coughing until his mother took him back inside with a dehumidifier set up in his room and rubbed his bony back until he calmed. He didn't want to think about the fact that his body was more used to the arid desert climate he had been held prisoner in than the air of his own backyard.

When the day (Wednesday, Percival reminded himself) to go into town for his doctor's appointment came around, Evelyn was in a positively chipper mood. In stark contrast, Percival was not at all excited about facing more medical poking and prodding, probably more drugs, and a visit to his old apartment. He didn't want to be reminded of the person he had once been, or of how much he'd lost. Percival didn't tell his mother any of that though, and especially didn't tell her that he took an extra dose of sleep medicine to knock himself out for the entire drive. 

The appointment itself was nothing special. The doctor told him everything he expected to hear-eat, sleep, take your meds, do the physical therapy, we can recommend some psychiatrists too. His mother looked at him expectantly at that last part, but Percival refused to look at her. 

He expected the trip to the apartment would be relatively quick, but upon arriving, he was shocked to see a head of fiery red hair outside the building. 

"Theseus?" he croaked as his father wheeled him towards the entrance.

"Hey Perce," the redhead answered, his bright eyes taking in the younger Graves's condition without an ounce of judgment. "It's been awhile, mate."

"Yeah, it has. What are you doing here though?" Percival asked, not unkindly. He hadn't seen Theseus since the last time he was in hospital recovering from his first tour of duty, where he'd taken a bullet in the back. At the time, Theseus had been feeling guilty about getting a medal of honor for his actions during the battle Percival had fallen, when Percival had been the one to sacrifice himself to protect Theseus. He had been so distracted by his imposter syndrome that he failed to realize that Percival was madly in love with him and would have gladly died for him. They had argued heatedly but pointlessly for days until Theseus got kicked out of the hospital for being too disruptive, and both had been too proud to try to reconnect. Before now anyway.

"Your Mum told me you'd got out of that hellhole and that you're back home with them now. She thought it'd be nice for you to have a friendly face here when you came back into the city," Theseus explained, keeping his tone casual for the sake of Percival's parents.

Arthur stepped forward to shake Theseus's hand. "It's great to see you again, Theseus. How's the teaching gig at West Point going?"

"Good to see you too, sir. And you know how it goes, same old hat, whipping the newbies into shape."

His parents continued to catch up with Theseus as they made their way up to Percival's apartment.

"And how's your little brother?" Evelyn inquired.

"Oh, he's doing great, actually!" Theseus said enthusiastically. "He's recently opened his own animal shelter here in the city. It's really quite something." 

Some things never changed, and it seemed Theseus's adoration for his younger brother fell in that category. Percival felt the foreign tug of a smile at his lips listening to this war hero gush about his baby brother.

His apartment was musty and felt distinctly uninhabited. Even before shipping out, Percival had spent most of his time training or assisting other officers with their work, and therefore, was hardly ever home. Mrs. Graves made a beeline for his bedroom to pick out some clothes for him, and his father trailed after her, leaving him alone with Theseus. 

"Percival-"

"Don't."

Neither of them were the type to beat around the bush.

"Please, I just want to make this right," Theseus implored. "I know I was wrong-"

"No, Theseus, I don't care about who was right or wrong," Percival cut in with a sigh. "It was a tough time for both of us, and I understand that."

"Then what can I do to make it up to you?" Theseus asked, kneeling so they were eye-level.

"See, that right there. There was never anything to make up for. I just want us to have a friendship where neither of us is feeling guilty simply for being alive," Percival said quietly, refusing to meet Theseus's expressive eyes.

"Is friendship all you want, Perce?" Theseus asked gently, and tucked the other man's shaggy hair behind his ear with a touch so tender and missed that Percival didn't even flinch from it. 

"I-I, I don't know," he relented. His body ached for more contact, but he knew he couldn't make this decision now, when he was coming apart at the seams both physically and mentally. "No, I can't. Not now. I'm sorry, Thes. I just can't right now."

Theseus retracted his hand immediately and said kindly, "Okay, I understand."

And Percival was certain that he did. He still felt colder for the loss of his touch. He couldn't look up, knowing he would cave at the sight of those beloved blue-green eyes. 

"Percival, look at me, please," Theseus said, placing a hand warmly on his friend's knee. "You know this isn't a limited-time offer, right? I'll be here waiting for you whenever you're ready."

Percival glanced up sharply at that, having expected this to be another unsatisfying farewell. 

The redhead looked uncharacteristically uncertain for a moment before asking, "Can I hug you?"

The other man nodded, ashamed at how weak he must seem for the king of zero personal space to be asking him that. Theseus wrapped him in a close embrace, mindful of the injuries his mother had undoubtedly told him about.

"Perce, you took a bullet for me. And no matter how much you ask me not to feel guilty about that, you'll never stop me from always being grateful. Our love is stronger than our flesh and bones, darling, and I was a fool for not grabbing it with both hands back then. And then I heard you were MIA, and I thought I might never have a second chance to give you all the love that you deserve." His voice broke with emotion, but he pushed on, "So believe me when I say that even if I have to wait a century for you, I'd gladly take that chance over none at all."

Percival's heart swelled to hear him speak such sweet words of dedication, but he couldn't bear to disappoint his dearest friend with the shell of a man he'd become. "Theseus, I-I'm not the same as I was before." The words came out small and shy, their speaker scared of their weight.

"Oh, darling, I don't expect you to be. I've changed a lot too, but I'm here for you no matter what, Perce," Theseus murmured against the crown of his head. 

"It's just all such a mess in my head, Thes," Percival admitted, tears forming unwillingly. "I want to come back to you with an answer when I've straightened it out."

Theseus pulled back to catch the other's eyes. He thumbed away the tears that had managed to slip out. "Of course, love. I told you I'd wait for whenever you're ready, Perce. I doubt your Mum would let a rowdy arse like me disturb your recovery anyway."

Percival surprised them both with a choked laugh and a watery smile. His face felt strained from the unused muscles at work, but it was worth it for the brief moment of levity. 

Mr. and Mrs. Graves made a well-timed entrance into the living room with a bag of Percival's belongings packed up for him. 

"Percy, we got some of your clothes and toiletries, but is there anything else you'd like to take?" his mother asked.

He shook his head no. He doubted his mother would let him bring his handgun home with them.

"Oh, I almost forgot. I picked up your mail for you, Perce. This came from the head office," Theseus said, presenting a stack of mail.

Percival took the one from the United States Army off the top of the stack and opened it with shaking hands. He read the letter vacantly, but he already knew what it would say. Theseus must've guessed too, because he laid a comforting hand on the other man's thin shoulder. 

"Percy, what is it?" his mother asked hesitantly.

"I'm being honorably discharged," Percival responded flatly, "with a medal for Distinguished Service." The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

His father, a recipient of the same award himself, clasped his son's other shoulder and told him, "It's an honor, son. Proof that you survived."

Numbness crept its way through his body, beginning at the fingertips touching the paper life sentence in his hands. Fifteen years of his life spent in service to his country, and this is how it all comes to a close. A letter in the mail sent along with instructions for filing for his pension and health insurance information. He knew there would be a ceremony and fanfare, but what did decorum matter to him now in his pitiful state? 

"I know," he heard himself say.

Evelyn cast a worried look at him before suggesting they head home. 

Percival nodded and turned to Theseus. "I mean it, Thes. The next time I see you, I want it to be when I'm my own man again."

"I understand, Perce." And Theseus did know what it was like to have to remake yourself. He could never hold that against his friend. "But that won't stop me from calling you every chance I have to check in."

They both shared a grin that warmed Mrs. Graves's heart. She hadn't seen her boy smile since before he'd been shipped out to the warzone. 

 

A month passed in a blur of doctor's appointments, physical therapy exercises, and long phone calls with Theseus. Percival was healing from his injuries slowly but steadily, no longer needing the wheelchair to get around, though his broken bones were still tender and he was a little underweight. Since receiving news of his discharge, he found himself wondering about his future increasingly often as his recovery occupied less and less of his time. He ate when his mother told him to, did his exercises when his father pulled him out of bed, and spoke when Theseus called, but could not motivate himself to do these things himself. What was the point in getting physically better, when all he'd ever be was a wreck who couldn't even sleep at night for fear of waking up in chains again? In fact, as his body healed and he was no longer perpetually exhausted from the pain, he found it difficult to sleep in his own bed. It was uncomfortably soft compared to the stone floors he was unfortunately accustomed to, and often resorted to settling down for the night on the rug next to his bed. He was careful to wake before his parents to get back in bed, lest they be even more concerned for him.   

One day in early October, he was sitting on the living room couch and asking Theseus over the phone about their mutual friends. Theseus had never explicitly said so, but Percival could parse out that the rest of his army buddies had given him up for dead. Even his second-in-command, Tina Goldstein, had stopped actively searching for him three months prior to his discovery, and it had merely been by chance that he was found during a raid of the camp. His consciousness flooded with abject fear at the realization that he might never have been found, and the phone had fallen from his nerveless hand. Not even Theseus's urgent voice registered through the sound of machine gun fire playing on repeat in his ears.

He returned to the present with a jolt as his mother's hand lightly wiped his damps cheeks. When had he even started crying? He took a deep breath when he realized his lungs were burning from lack of oxygen. 

"M-Mom?" his voice cracked and a sob pushed its way out.

"Yeah, baby, I'm here," she soothed while pulling his head forward to rest against her stomach. The front of her shirt quickly became saturated with his tears. She had her cell phone in the other hand, which she raised to say, "He's alright, Theseus, just feeling a bit overwhelmed. Thank you so much for calling me. I'll make sure he calls you back when he's feeling up to it. Okay, bye dear."

Percival's gasping sobs were muffled slightly from where his face was pressed against her. She took him by his shaking shoulders and pulled away to look at him. She sighed as he quickly averted his eyes and hung his head to hide the free-falling tears.

"Oh, Percy, come here, baby," she said, while sitting down next to him and pulling him down to lie with his head in her lap. He pressed his face into the fabric of her pants and clutched desperately at the hand she was stroking along his cheek. Evelyn did her best to anchor her son as he was wracked with wrenching sobs.

"I-I-I'm sorry," he stuttered when he caught his breath enough to speak through the tears, "I-I c-can't stop." 

"Oh, no, it's alright, dear, don't be sorry. It's better to let it out than keep it all bottled up. I'll sit with you as long as you need, sweetie."

And she did. She stayed as he cried himself dry, and after too, when the dry sobs continued to make him tremble. She stayed when he finally drifted off to sleep, even as her legs went numb under his head.

Arthur came home that evening to the endearing sight of his son curled up under the quilt Percy's grandmother had made him, with his head resting in Evelyn's lap. He saw his son was sleeping, though his eyes looked red and puffy. 

"What happened?" he whispered, sitting himself carefully on the couch by Percy's feet.

Evelyn shook her head and whispered back, "I'm not sure. Some kind of flashback while on the phone with Theseus."

He sighed and glanced down at his boy, then tucked the quilt more snuggly around him. 

"Art, he needs to see a therapist. Soon," Evelyn whispered with conviction.

"I agree, but it doesn't matter what we think if Percy doesn't want to go."

"How do you know he doesn't want to go? We haven't even properly asked him," she hissed back.

Between them, Percival moaned in his sleep and shivered under the quilt, his brows knit together in distress.

_Why was he so cold? He had escaped that horrid prison cell, hadn't he?_

_'Oh, Percy, you'll never escape me,' a voice dripping with malice whispered in his ear. 'Don't you remember, love? I marked you as my property.'_

_Icy hands ripped his shirt open, exposing more of his skin to the cold air. Carved into his chest in ugly, jagged letters, deep enough to sever tendons, spelled the name of his captor. A permanent reminder of the suffering he had endured. It still bled sluggishly, weeping red tears for the loss of himself at the hands of this bastard. He struggled against his bindings, desperate to scratch out the abomination on his chest, even if it meant hurting himself._

"Percy!"

_Hands were grabbing him, trying to hold him down. He wouldn't relent without a fight._

"Percival, please!"

_That...sounded like his mother. Was he hallucinating? Was his mother trapped here too? He struggled to follow her voice._

He woke up drenched in sweat, with his father's hands firmly grasping his wrists. Percival looked up and saw his mother, tears streaming down her cheeks, and his heart ached because he knew it was his fault. Actually, his whole chest really hurt. He looked down at himself and saw the front of his T-shirt was ripped and stained with blood. There was blood under his fingernails. His father, still dressed in his work clothes, gazed at him sadly as he slowly let go of his wrists.

"You with us, Perce?" Arthur asked gently, studying his son intently.

Percival nodded slightly, too dazed from the violence of his nightmare to speak yet. His head was still in his mother's lap, and she brushed the sweat-damp hair from his forehead soothingly. 

"Oh, Percy," she broke off into a sob.

"Evelyn, would you please get the first aid kit and a new shirt for him?" Arthur addressed his wife, sensing she needed some time to collect herself. 

She nodded and left without a word, slipping a pillow under Percival to replace her lap, but they could still hear her crying as she went down the hall.

"Alright, would you let me take a look, Perce?" his father asked, no judgment or pity in his voice. 

Percival hesitated, ashamed of the scars spelling out proof of his weakness, but realized that both his parents had already seen his chest several times while changing the bandages. At his nod, his father helped him sit up on the couch. He pulled his shirt over his head, wincing as it irritated the fresh scratches. 

"Doesn't look too bad," his father said calmly, his face neutrally kind. Percival had always admired his dad's level-headedness, and longed to achieve that kind of inner calm himself. 

His mother returned with the first aid kit, a towel, a bowl of water, and a fresh T-shirt tucked under her arm. Her eyes were red, but dry.

Percival couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze, guilt weighing his body down, when he said, "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to scare you like that."

"Oh, honey, don't worry about that. You're allowed to feel the things you do, Percy," she said sincerely. She reached out to touch his bare shoulder, but he recoiled so sharply, the cuts on his chest started to bleed again. 

"Sorry," Percival apologized reflexively.

"It's alright, dear," his mother said with a sad smile. "How about I go fix us some hot cocoa while your father helps you clean up?"

He nodded absently, and she left with a pat to Arthur's shoulder.

"Don't worry about your mother, son," his father said as he wet the towel she'd brought. "She's just concerned-we both are."

His father paused, gesturing to Percival's chest with the damp towel, and he nodded his assent. The cloth was cold and wet as his father dabbed at the bloody skin, and Percival couldn't suppress a violent shiver. 

"I don't-" Percival began.

"Hm?"

The younger man played with the hem of the quilt still covering his lower half. 

"I, I don't want either of you to worry about me," Percival said quietly, face still downturned. 

Arthur sighed. Before all this, his son had never shied from eye contact or confrontation, but he knew firsthand that war changed people. 

"Perce, we're your parents. We're always going to worry about you, son. Here, this is going to sting a bit," he said as he spritzed an antibacterial spray on the scratches.

The sting of it barely registered, Percival's threshold for pain having grown exponentially. 

"But I'm a grown-ass man, Dad," he protested, a rare peek of emotion slipping into his voice. "I shouldn't need to come crying to my mom and dad every time I have a bad dream."

"Percival, you can't help what you need. And it doesn't matter how old you are, you're always going to be our kid, and we're always going to do anything and everything we can to help you," his father declared, while wrapping the scratches in white bandages. "I know you probably feel like you're being a burden, which you're not, but your mother and I would be twice as worried if you pushed us away when you need help." He took his son's hand in his own, careful not to squeeze as the fragile bones were still healing. 

"I meant what I said before," Arthur went on, "you can tell either of us, or Theseus, or anyone else how you're really feeling, Perce."

"I'm fine, Dad," Percival said automatically.

His father cast a critical eye over him. "Are you sure, son? There's no shame in getting help when you need it. I saw a therapist for years after coming back from 'Nam."

"I don't need a therapist!" Percival snapped at him. He looked immediately regretful, and added in a softer tone, "I'm fine, Dad, really."

Arthur appraised him for a long moment before conceding, "Alright, Perce. It's your life and your decision, and I trust you to choose the best for yourself. But just know that your mother and I will support you if you ever change your mind."

Percival nodded his thanks, glad to let the subject drop. However, rather than relief, he found more guilt and uncertainty squeeze in his chest. He didn't have time to dwell on it, as his mother returned with three mugs of hot cocoa and a strained smile.

 

"Are you sure it wasn't something I said, Perce?"

"I told you already, Thes, it wasn't your fault. I don't need you feeling guilty, too," Percival insisted exasperatedly. 

There was silence on the line as they both considered what he'd just said. 

"Percival, what did you mean back at your apartment when you said you didn't want both of us feeling guilty for being alive?" Theseus asked point-blank after a moment.

"...New topic please."

"Perce, I'm trying to have a serious conversation here," the Brit sighed.

"Yeah, well I don't want to talk about it, Thes," Percival said irritably.

"I really think it'd help you to talk with someone about what happened to you-"

"You think so?" Percival interrupted, spitting venom in his words. "You think it'd help me to relive how I was tortured for over six months? You think I'd want to share how it feels to have every single nail ripped off my fingers? How he made me eat food scraps off the floor like a fucking dog? Or maybe you'd like to hear how it feels to survive that hell only to relive it every goddamn night in my sleep?"

He knew he was shouting at that point, and that his parents could probably hear from where they were watching TV in the other room. He was just so frustrated and fed up with the pity and not-so-subtle insinuations that he was fucked up in the head. He knew that already, and didn't need his parents and best friend to remind him of it constantly.

There was a heavy silence following his tirade, before Theseus replied simply, "Well, yes. I want you to talk about all that, so that people who care about you can help you carry the burden."

"I don't want you to!" Percival insisted stubbornly. "It's not yours, or my parents' sob story to bear. It's bad enough that I'm making them give up so much time and energy. I can handle this on my own."

Theseus stopped himself from rebutting, and instead said evenly, "You know, Newt moved in with me after I came back from war the first time. He was still in vet school at the time, and he more than doubled his commute by living at my place." He shook his head fondly.

Percival was surprised at the apparent shift in subject, but waited in silence to see where the story went.

"I was awful company at the time," Theseus continued. "He would cook for me every day, and I'd only eat it half the time, without ever thanking him. He'd clean the apartment for me once a week, and I'd just sit there and watch, never offering to help."  
Percival hadn't met Theseus yet during that time, but he couldn't picture his vibrant and gregarious friend and doting big brother being so listless. He drew himself from his musings as Theseus went on speaking. 

"And one night during his exams week, he came home with take away from my favorite place, apologizing for not having time to cook. I asked him why he was doing all this for me and how could he stand to put up with my miserable self. And Newt told me that this is what unconditional love meant. He said he'd never give up on me, even if I gave up on myself. So he stayed with me through it all, and taught me how to accept help from people who care about me."

"But Theseus, I don't need-"

"I know, I know," the other man cut in, "but I'm trying to tell you that we're here to help you if you ever do decide you need it. Unconditionally, Perce." 

And Percival, well, Percival didn't know how to feel. He managed to reply numbly, "I have to go, Thes. Talk to you later." 

He hit the End button, ignoring the way Theseus tried to keep him on the line. He felt suddenly exhausted, the emotional turbulence weighing heavily on him. He let the phone drop from his fingers and pressed his palms into his eyes, willing away the tears. 

"Everything alright, son?" his father asked quietly, but even that had him practically jumping out of his skin in surprise.

Percival replied quickly, "Yeah, I'm fine, Dad." 

Arthur frowned and considered his son for a moment, taking in his hunched posture and shaking hands. He placed a hand on Percival's shoulder, feeling the flinch the younger man tried to suppress anyway. 

"Come on, Perce, let's go for a walk." He pulled him up by the arm, and dragged him along to the door. He called out to Evelyn that they were going out for a bit and grabbed both their coats on the way out. 

They set out at a leisurely pace, Percival still limping and not entirely steady on his feet yet. The younger Graves realized he hadn't really seen much of his old neighborhood since being back at home, as he only ever left the house for doctors' appointments. It was a small, quiet town-the epitome of suburbia. 

His father led them to the park, which was usually only a 10 minute walk from their house, but took almost 20 with how slowly Percival was moving. They settled on a park bench across from the modest veterans' memorial in the center of the lawn. 

Percival took a few moments to catch his breath after the walk, embarrassed by how easily he tired. His father waited patiently, enjoying the crisp autumn air and watching other park-goers pass by. 

"You know what this monument is for, don't you son?" Arthur asked casually after a few minutes' silence.

Percival looked up curiously at his father, then turned to face the white stone monument. It was engraved with the names of deceased local veterans and flanked by several old, fraying American flags. He remembered coming here often as a child with his grandfather, whose name was proudly added when he passed. 

"Yeah, of course, it's to honor our town's veterans," Percival replied, with the sinking feeling that he was in for another serious talk.

His father nodded and pointed to a decrepit-looking flag, faded with age and weathering. It was scarcely more than ribbons of fraying thread.

"That's your great-grandfather's flag. And that," he pointed to another raggedy flag towards the end of the row, "is your grandfather's flag. When I pass on, they'll fly another flag for me, and one day, hopefully many, many years from now, they'll raise one for you."

Of course, Percival had known all this from a young age, with military service being so deeply ingrained in their family. He knew the flags remained on their poles until time and wear and tear eroded them away. He'd always thought it was a rather sad sight.

"I know you know all this, son, but hear me out," his father said good-naturedly. "Now, you're not old enough to remember, but back during the Cold War, General Douglas MacArthur gave a farewell address that popularized a certain quote. He said, 'Old soldiers never die, they just fade away.'" He gestured to the row of flags.

"As you can see, the people of this town really took it to heart, and built this memorial, where the flags of our predecessors eventually fade out of existence."

Percival gazed at the flags again with new understanding. It was depressing to think that the lives and legacies of his family and himself were doomed to decay into nothingness. His life and service suddenly felt so meaningless. What had been the point in clinging to survival if all he ever amounted to was a fragile scrap of patriotism holding onto life by a thread? His father spoke again, disrupting Percival's spiraling thoughts.

"But as for me, I find that sentiment a bit antiquated, don't you think? It seems to me that it was meant more as a comfort to loved ones left behind. Something to remind them that the person they lost to war isn't really gone, as long they're remembered. I don't think we're doomed to fade away, Perce. I believe we just move on."

Arthur put a hand on his son's shoulder, squeezing gently, and watched his face carefully. Percival continued to stare down intently at his scarred hands, turning the words over and over in his mind. He could feel his father's gaze on him. 

"Percival," Arthur said, resolution in his voice, "the soldier in us will never die, but we can choose how we continue to live. You don't have to let what happened to you define the person that you become from here on out. I know it hurts to keep going after it all, but that's why you have family and friends to lean on for support. We don't want to watch you fray at the edges and unravel when you're right within reach."

He stared off at the memorial, which was now bathed in the red-orange light of a fall sunset, before lightly patting his son on the back. 

"Just something to think about, Perce," Arthur said while standing up. He offered the younger Graves a hand. "It's getting cold. We better get you home before your mother files a missing persons report."

Percival forced a laugh and nodded, taking his father's hand to carefully lever himself off the park bench. His legs were stiff from sitting in the autumn chill for so long. He felt far older than his 33 years, especially when his father had to take him by the elbow to steady him. 

It was even slower going on the way back home, and it was almost dark by the time they reached the front door. Evelyn was in the kitchen cooking dinner, but they could hear her footsteps pacing the tiled floor. Upon hearing the door close behind them, she came bustling out to the foyer. 

"Arthur! Where did you go? I thought you were just going to be gone a few minutes!" she said hotly while casting a critical eye over her son, as if checking for visible damage.

"We just took a walk to the park, Evelyn. No big deal," Arthur replied calmly.

"You walked there?" Evelyn asked incredulously, brandishing her wooden spoon at her husband accusingly. "You know Percy shouldn't be exerting himself like that, he's still recovering!"

"We made it there alright, though," Arthur said.

"Maybe so, but it's too chilly out for him to go gallivanting off to the park of all places! What'll you do if he catches cold? It's flu season, you know!"

"Evelyn, dear," Mr. Graves said placatingly.

They both stopped bickering when they heard their son chuckle softly. Percival thought he'd only be annoyed by the overprotectiveness or feel guilty for worrying his mother, but above all that was overwhelming affection for the familiarity of listening to his parents squabble over nothing like they always have.

"Sorry," he said, mirth in his voice, "I'm just glad that at least you're both the same as ever."

His mother smiled fondly as she beckoned him closer. 

"Oh Percy, come here darling." She wrapped him up in a hug that warmed away the chill clinging to him from the night air. "We love you, too, dear."

His father ushered them both further inside. "Let's get inside. Dinner smells great, Eve, and you should rest that leg, Perce."

 

After dinner, Percival excused himself early to retreat to his room. He lay on the bed, staring intently at the blank ceiling, and tried to mentally process everything that Theseus and his father had told him. 

Old soldiers never die, huh? He supposed it was true. Even when Grindelwald's torture had him begging for death, a small part of him still desperately wanted to survive. Even now, with his body and mind a wreck and no prospects for the future before him, he couldn't let himself just give up. Theseus always said he was born to be a fighter. Today though, he felt as wrung out as the towel a boxer might throw in the ring. 

He sighed and rolled onto his side, winced as it put pressure on his still-tender ribs, and returned to laying on his back. He was exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the day and the unexpected exercise, but knew with reluctant certainty that his sleep would be plagued with nightmares. It would be nice to fall asleep without that inevitability looming over him for once. The sleep medicine knocked him out, but did nothing to stop his mind from reliving and distorting the memories of war and captivity. God, it'd be nice to get some decent sleep. 

He knew plenty of his fellow officers had gone through therapy after returning from combat, and he never thought any less of them for it. It was different when it was him, though. He didn't want to label himself as broken, or admit to himself and his family that he was anything less than perfectly sane. It felt like a weakness. It felt like failure. 

But his parents and Theseus had been so adamant throughout his recovery that it was alright if he needed help. They insisted that they wanted to help him and that he wasn't burdensome or weak. 

But maybe...maybe it'd be okay to believe that they meant it. His parents had never lied to him before, and he didn't think Theseus would-not about this. Percival didn't think he warranted this kind of selfless support, and he definitely wasn't worth all the grief he'd caused his loved ones. He doubted he could count the number of times he'd made his mother cry in the past few months. And there was the soul-crushing guilt returning with a vengeance at the thought of causing his parents and Theseus any more pain. 

But then, Percival could prevent that, couldn't he? He could do whatever it takes to get better, to stop them from worrying about him. It probably wasn't the best motivation for seeking help, but he could try to work on that too. 

He sucked in a deep breath, and pulled himself upright on his bed. He stared at the closed bedroom door across the room and thought of how easy it would be to just lie back down. He shook his head as if physically trying to shake off the thoughts.

_No, you were-no, are, a soldier, Percival_ , he told himself.  _You survived three tours of duty in active combat zones. You can handle telling your parents you need therapy._      

In one motion, he quickly slid off the bed and stepped towards the door, only hesitating half a second before turning the knob. His parents were in the living room, reading quietly and having an after-dinner coffee. His mother still wasn't letting him drink coffee, and he savored the fragrance as he paused in the hallway to collect himself.

"Mom? Dad?" Damn, his voice sounded oddly shy even to his own ears.

 

And after his admission, and after the fresh tears and verbal reassurances, when he was sandwiched between his parents in an unheard of group hug, that was when he understood what Theseus had been trying to convey. This was unconditional love.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm planning for a sequel, so stay tuned!


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